Reviews Coming Soon

Monday, May 26, 2014

The story behind The Planet Of The Apes, a French novel by
Pierre Boulle, was deemed great enough to warrant a movie of its own.
That birthed a 70s franchise which then kicked off a comic book series, a
TV series and went on to inspire other movie-makers, novelists and Simpsons
scriptwriters (“You finally made a monkey out of me!”). Then came a
2001 reboot of the original movie, followed just 10 years later by a
reboot of the franchise. It seems fair to suggest that Boulle created a
bit of a monster.

Of course it has also inspired musicians (Devin, I’m looking at you)
and digging through The Room Colored Charlatan’s new concept album Primitives
you’d believe you were listening to the same story of ape-like
creatures set on some far off planet. In fact, initially, the intuitive
polyrhythms, riffing, prog-addled soundscapes and lyrics that tell of
“an earthly biosphere created for a species of consumption” will have
you picturing The Contortionist’s Exoplanet. Seriously, if ever that world was to be populated, you could imagine that Primitives might just be describing their failing symbiotic relationship.

Of course, the revelation will hit you at some point, as it does in Boulle’s great novel, and like the ruined Statue of Liberty
rising from the sands, you’ll realise this damning tale with such
imaginative wordplay is about your own home planet. Of course, Primitives
refers to the past and the present more than it does the future. It is
describing the inexorable rise of mankind and its position as the
dominant, planet-destroying beast we are today.

No matter where you look here, these Indiana-based purveyors of
attack-and-release tech metal consistently warrant comparison with bands
like Veil of Maya, Between The Buried And Me, The Faceless and the
afore-mentioned Contortionist. Throughout they suck you in with vast,
sprawling passages of ambience before gobbing you out headfirst into
scrambling walls of antagonistic death vocal and hammering strings.

From the opening hit of “Instinct”, far more than just an obligatory
introductory piece, the album grips you. The track yawns into life
before building into a steadily thumping, abrasive monster. Layered to
the gills, you’ll pick up a warbling effected by fast string-tapping,
some eerily cosmic keys, a strong Steve Vai-esque axe tone evoking the
emphatic styling of 80′s prog rock, bruising drum patterns and the
brutal death growls of Jared Bush. It all feeds, through the curiously
detached instrumental punch of “Native Habitat” into the scrambling,
scattergun shape-shifting of “Apex Predator”.

The title-track struggles to find a natural cadence but heading into
the second half of the album, they really get stuck into the songs. Here
the songwriting is much improved with far-less opaque structuring and
some sweet vocal hooks. “Questions of Origin” settles things down
immediately, inciting a deep bouncing rhythm into which they tip
scrambling tech, some nifty electro touches and a backing vocal that
repeats something very reminiscent of Suicide Silence legend Mitch
Lucker’s scathing “Wake Up” line.

“Survivalist Notion” could really be a monster of a track for them
with a butch groove, an inspirational section of Gojira-esque grumbling
and some curveball boy-girl harmonics. It all comes welded to a keen
industrial edge. Moving on there’s plenty of added crunch and some
stomach-dropping bass drops popping up throughout “The Atlas Effect” to
balance out the dream-like backdrops (themselves a nod to Uneven
Structure’s Februus) and leaping out of bonus track “Nexus
Point” the second vocal channels the achingly-beautiful vocal of Dan
“Skyharbor” Tompkins. This, here, is music for fantasists.

All told, there is something of an overdose of rhythmic dropouts and
they don’t consistently nail the balance between rough and smooth. The
detrimental knock-on effect is to the natural flow of the album.
However, this is mere nitpicking when you consider the bustling
enthusiasm of it all, the strong production levels and the players’
immense skill. Primitives is a marriage of originality and
inspiration and TRCC have gifted us an album loaded with passion. As a
consequence, the end result is bursting with colours, strong and rich
enough to sell this incriminating account of woe to your mind’s eye. I
believe an anguished cry of “Maniacs! You finally blew it all up. God
damn you all to hell!” is in order.

Monday, May 19, 2014

Anyone up for a good old-fashioned campfire freakout? Addled minds
and heightened senses, merry jigs and sudden noises and, all the while,
dark shadows cavort across the trunks of gnarled, bent trees. The
identical Momrak twins of Tusmørke (meaning “Twilight”)
clearly have a bit of experience in this area and make music that
provides the perfect backdrop to such revelry with lush, dark tones,
magical instrumentation and rich layering all invoking the rituals, the
emotions and hallowed reverence of the occasion. Sniff hard and you’d
swear you could smell damp undergrowth and burning wood.

With a strong root system reaching back, past the Scandinavian
neo-progressive rock scene of the 1990s which birthed them, to invoke
the 1970s sounds of Jethro Tull and Focus, this acid rock group also
manage to suck in a darker quality that encroaches upon the listener.
It’s a foreboding, broader sound that can be allied to more contemporary
sources such as Hexvessel and Circle. The key points to their attack
are to be found in the majesty of the harmonics, the use of minor keys
and the flourishes of Krizla’s flute and Årabrot’s Hammond organ.

With songs that are sung in English wedged in between two sung in
their native language, this 5-track album isn’t afraid to twist tongues
to match-make. Opener “Offerpresten” (in English, “Sacrificial Priest”)
is a beauty. Majestical and rhythmically strong, the music could have
come direct from the imaginings of Ian Anderson himself. The flute
threads a riff through the piece that had me grinning from ear to ear,
mocking the great man’s flamingo legs and hopping from foot to foot. Can
you air flute? The softer, folk-riddled hush of “Gamle Aker Kirke” will
transport you back to mediaeval times and the imposing shadow of an old
church. There’s strong harmonies here and a passage of spoken word that
pops up amidst all this curtseying and courtliness.

There is a subtle dip in impact tracks that takes place as you
venture deeper into the album. The dream of flying with the “Black
Swift” is scuppered by it being a somewhat repetitive and all too
regimented journey. By the end of its 8:40 running time it is really
struggling. You’d think the 14-minute “Riset Bak Speilet” (translated as
“The Birch Behind The Looking Glass”) might suffer from the same
problem at 13:20, but exercise a little patience and you should find
plenty of excellent King Crimson-esque jazzy affectations, an engaging
shape-shifting structure, an addictive re-emergent chorus lick and a
sweet thread of magickal organ and flute.

So engaging are the lyrics, I have made it my prerogative to learn
Norwegian before their next release. My personal favourite here lurks in
“All Is Lost” – “Wasted effort, Time ill spent, Now I can’t even pay
the rent, All is lost”. For those who dig a decent lyric there’s
definitely also a mention of “Toilet pain” in here somewhere. Do make
sure you pick up the CD version of this because then you’ll get 3 bonus
tracks to wade through. It’s an excellent find this. Don’t let the
connections with other bands put you off. It is a real glimmer of
stylistic originality within a vast sea of over-familiar, unimaginative
dross and well worth a listen.

Friday, May 9, 2014

The Golden Grass are all about kicking back in the summer sun and
letting their combination of blissed-out blues and warbling psych rock
gently fold in around you. If their moniker didn’t give you a heads-up,
most certainly the artwork on their debut album, a beautifully coloured
piece by Niko Potocniak (founder of space rockers Seven That Spells),
should do. Hailing from Brooklyn, NY, the band combine the sultry,
sparse qualities of 60s groovers like The Move and The Animals with 70s
boogie bands such as Cactus and Steely Dan. With added retro psychedelic
soundscaping, the combination produces a rhythmic drive and tonal
quality not unlike the funkier, trippier side of contemporary stylists
like those of Danava and Horisont.

Most certainly it is Joe Noval’s bold electric bass that provides the
solid framework allowing Michael Rafalwich’s wacky use of sustain and
distortion to colour the picture with oodles of fuzz and echo. Fleshing
it all out, the laid-back vocal harmonies are a case of steady-as-she-goes.
Lyrically, there’s plenty of reassuring repetition allowing it all to
stick in the mind. Hooked throughout, the wordplay and riffs will have
you humming and singing in the bath long after the last note has faded.

The wildly theatrical psychedelic intro of “Please Man”
quickly kicks into a head-bobbing verse. There’s a sweet, shuffling
middle-eight, a dropout into chilled-out half-time and a switch into yet
another echoing backdrop of cosmic wash. On the flipside, “Stuck On A Mountain”
is more straight-up. It has fistfuls of smooth harmonics and an
enigmatic pinged, top-end bassline that gets you deep in the gut. The
rhythm jinks and jives always adding flavour. “One More Time” and “Sugar N’ Spice”
both have lashings of soft-bellied guitar buzz and a harder, bluesier
edge that both evoke plenty of Lynyrd Skynyrd. The groove and blatant
funk kick on the latter makes it well worth the extended running time.

The album’s balance rocks a little with the over-indulgent “Wheels”.
At 13 minutes, it does account for almost half the album, so its choppy
nature is somewhat concerning. Opening and closing as a fine piece of
music to stick in your car when you’re breezing down country roads, the
groove suddenly goes missing in the middle. Whether the plethora of warp
effect guitar solos and disconnected drum showboating can really
warrant repeated listens is debatable. At one point the track implodes,
becoming little more than a series of disturbing whale sounds. Surely,
this isn’t just an attempt to stretch an EP into an LP, is it? What does
stand out is the walking bass and passionate jamming.

The Golden Grass’ crowning glory, of course, is that seemingly
effortless, lush groove that they generate. Be it a field of flowers or
the warm sands of a tropical beach that you imagine running through your
fingers as you listen, the very fact that they take you drifting along
with them proves that they are pushing all the right buttons. So hop on
board… you really won’t regret it.

Thursday, May 8, 2014

Not to be confused with Anti-Mortem, like this reviewer might or might not have done, Anti Ritual‘s
four experienced members all have deep roots in the Copenhagen hardcore
scene. As Marco Malcorps, lead singer and lyricist pointed out in a
recent interview, the quartet are so-named because “the acts of playing music and screaming out lyrics serve at times almost as a cathartic ritual – to get it all out, you know.”
In fact, he’s quite clear here about the reasons for forming the band.
“I worry about what kind of world we are leaving for our kids, and if we
will leave any world at all.” Naturally, this mindset moulds their
focus with Malcorps explaining their lyrics are “a harsh critique of mainstream society and the feeling of being in opposition to it.” Their aim, then, is to empower and arm the populace to give them “a way to cope with these feelings so as to not sink into total fucking apathy.”

What is clear is that no matter the topic (war, politics, social
malaise or environmentalism), this latest slice of barbaric D-beat angst
is an awesome exercise in the art of battery. Recorded and produced by
the band themselves, mixed by Jakob Reichert Nielsen (Rising, Lack) and
mastered by Brad Boatright (Nails, Sleep, From Ashes Rise),
the six tracks on this self-titled EP hit with the force of a battering
ram. With a mere 16-minute running time it really is a case of get in,
make your point and get the fuck out. The combination of a primal
throat-ripping vocal, splattering riffage and a thunderous stampede of
skins certainly form a powerful alliance.

From the off the band’s blackened lungs hack-up waves of sludge and
thunder as they deliver, short sharp blows to your ears. Opener “Ideals To The Fire” grumbles and growls like a pissed-off, chained-up rottweiler faced with a tormenting postman. “Slave Dogmatics” ups the ante, escaping the obliterating one-dimensional dirge to marry Black Breath‘s incisive menace to High On Fire‘s
wild stringwork. Through speeding, dissonant chugs and howling chord
sweeps Jacob Krogholt carves us out a new level of fury. The true
mindbender here is “No Second Earth”. The message here is clear – without change humanity’s self-destruction awaits. “And here we are… in total disregard“,
wails Malcorps. K.B. Larsen’s snarling bass frequently pitches its way
to the surface and the intensive crush of Nikolaj Borg’s panicking
kick-drum releases into half-time to create space within the track. The
effect is mesmerising.

Blistering on through the swarthy, bludgeoning efforts of ‘The Highest Privilege’ and ‘Blame The Victim’,
the former replete with a cyclical, echoing passage of cantankerous
doom-mongering, we reach a vital, impressive kink in this EP’s
evolution. Through a squall of feedback comes the elephantine pacing and
vitriolic refrains of a ‘A New Discourse On Enlightenment.’
Through the breaks and chugging patterns, Malcorps simmers like a
pre-menstrual Jamey Jasta on morphine. With bulging veins he delivers
one final crawling message riddled with malevolent spite that caterwauls
its way to an inevitable oblivion.

Aimed at those with dark souls, those malevolent extremists seeking a new level of violence, Anti Ritual
certainly crams in a lifetime of pain into an infuriatingly short
running time. You may emerge bloodied and bruised by the experience, but
you will believe that this Danish foursome’s point is undeniably valid.